


King Under the Mountain

by harrylee94



Series: Emissaries of Erebor [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-28 23:46:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harrylee94/pseuds/harrylee94
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Battle of the Five Armies has been won and Erebor is once again the proud city of the dwarves. Kíli is rejoicing his own survival, but having been separated from his brother and Uncle, what will he find as he searches the battlefield? And how will it impact on his future?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Battles lost and won

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Valandhir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valandhir/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle is over and done, but life still goes on, even with the hardships we have to face.

His quiver was empty and his bow lost. The various small knives he had kept tucked away in various places about his person were either embedded in some of the bodies that surrounded him, or buried in the mud that had soon formed after the heavens had opened. Left arm having been rendered useless from a close encounter with a warg, he had been clutching it close to his chest to avoid any additional pain as he had continued to battle, his sword held firmly in his other hand, slicing through Goblin and Orc alike. Now though, it hung loosely at his side, tip resting on the ground as he breathed heavily, a smile slowly forming on his gore covered face.

It was over. The battle was done, the dragon was dead, and Erebor was their home once more.

Looking across the field of battle, he could see several figures of different shapes and sizes walking through the sludge and the muck that came from the mixing of mud and the blood of Orcs, Goblins, Elves, Dwarves and Men. He had yet to see a familiar face, but he did not have to wait long.

"Kíli, lad!" came a voice from behind him as a hand fell on his shoulder, causing him to wince involuntarily as it caused him to shift his arm slightly.

Turning to face his companion, he smiled.

"Balin!" he exclaimed, sheathing his sword and pulling the older dwarf into an embrace, "It's good to see you!"

"Likewise," Balin replied, holding the boy out at arm's length, looking him over with a studious eye, "Looks like that arm's going to need a look at."

"I need to find my brother and Uncle first."

Nodding, Balin patted him on his good shoulder. "Just head towards the Gate. I'm sure you'll find them in that direction."

"Thank you Balin," Kíli said and began to make his way up the hill.

"Oh! And if you see my brother, tell him he owes me a drink!" the old dwarf shouted after him.

"I will!" he chuckled, shaking his head as he continued on his way up. When he reached the top, he took a moment to examine his surroundings.

The landscape, once devoid of any true features save the ruins of the once proud city of Dale, had become a mass burial ground. When the battle had begun, there had been almost two thousand human, elven and dwarfish swords; now there were less than half. The dead and dying lay where they had fallen, awaiting rescue or an honourable burial. Even with the little knowledge he had of war, Kíli knew that not all would get their wish.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, he began to make his way down the other side of the hill, finding it impossible to search for his brother from his position without his thoughts wandering. Trying to make sure he didn't catch his feet on any stones or rocks or… other things, he eventually made his way to the bottom.

The mountain loomed overhead, its crown lost in the clouds that had remained from the storm, its imposing form making the sky seem like some outlandish blanket that kept the Lonely peak warm. It was strange. He had never seen it up close before arriving, but from the stories he had been told of its majesty, it was as though he had lived his entire life there.

He knew of the secret passages that Thorin had used as a child to sneak past the guards into the throne room. He knew of the forges, their fires so hot that it rivalled the fiery breath of a dragon. He knew of the mines, and he had seen the hordes of gold that his great grandfather had obsessed over with his own eyes. It was everything that he'd been told, and yet nothing like what he'd imagined.

Pulling his eyes away from the great sight, he found himself supressing a giggle as he watched several dwarves in full armour pulling a familiar figure. A very large familiar figure.

"Come on boys! He's not that heavy!" Bofur cried as he walked behind his brother's unconscious form, holding Bifur's arm over his shoulder as the pike wielder used his weapon as a walking stick to alleviate pressure from his left foot, which was more than likely broken.

Running over, he smiled. "Bifur! Bofur!"

"Hello there laddie!" Bofur replied as his cousin grunted in recognition, "I'd doff my hat, but I appear to have lost it."

"Well, I appear to have lost my brother and Uncle. I don't suppose you've seen them have you?"

Bofur's mouth twisted as he bit the inside of his cheek in thought. "I'm not sure about Thorin, but I saw Fíli back that ways a bit," he said, motioning the way he came with his head.

Nodding, the young dwarf thanked him and continued on his way.

As he steadily made his way closer to the Gate, he found the number of living people dwindling, none of whom were either of the right race nor with a beard short enough, and the light of the day was swiftly fading over the hills.

He was about to give up when…

"Kíli!"

Turning around, he grinned as he found his brother jumping over mounds of corpses. The smile on Fíli's face was marred by a gash that made its way down the right side of his face from the side of his temple, close to his eye, and down to his chin, the blood soaking into the blonde hair of his beard, and he seemed to be limping slightly, but that did not sway them from their joy. As they embraced each other, ignoring their wounds and surroundings, Kíli laughed.

There had been several moments during the battle where he had thought he would not survive to see his brother again, and before the Eagles had arrived, he doubted anyone else would have either. Not that he would admit it to anyone, but he had been terrified, and the relief he had felt when the giant birds had appeared had nearly killed him, almost spending a moment too long staring up at their silhouettes as they dove in from the clouds. Had he not, his arm would probably still be in working order.

Pulling back from his one armed hug, Kíli looked over the battlefield, his smile slipping slightly, before turning back again.

"Where's Thorin?" he asked as he surveyed the area.

Fíli frowned. "Isn't that him over there? By the Gate?" he asked, pointing at the solitary figure in the distance.

"So it is," Kíli grinned, "I'll race you!"

Taking off before his brother could say anything, he raced towards the dwarf shaped shadow, bouncing on light feet as the adrenalin coursed through his veins. He'd never felt more alive than he did in that moment.

Looking behind him, he laughed at how Fíli was struggling to keep up before turning back towards his goal.

Running down the blood stained road, the shadow soon became the familiar figure of his uncle, back facing towards him as the King of the Lonely Mountain stared into the depths of the place he once called home. At his feet lay the corpses of the Pale Orc and his son, barely recognisable from the tooth and claw marks that covered their forms. No doubt Beorn had been the cause of those.

"Thorin!" he cried, waving his hand in the hopes his Uncle would turn to face him, "Uncle, we've won! We've done it!"

Stopping a few feet away to catch his breath, he leant on his knees for a moment before looking up. When he found that Thorin's back was still turned to him, he frowned. "Uncle?"

Blinking, the dwarf King moved his head towards his nephew, his vacant eyes falling on him just as his brother arrived. "Fíli? Kíli?"

Fíli nodded, his own features falling as he beheld their uncle. "Aye. It is us."

A small, sad smile graced Thorin's lips as he turned back to the Gate. "I am glad I was able to see you again… before the end."

The brothers glanced at each other, confused and unnerved by Thorin's choice of words. They had always known that they would, but neither of them could deny the feeling of dread that was beginning to growing inside them.

Suddenly, Thorin's strong and proud frame slumped and he tumbled to his knees, his sword dropping uselessly to the side as the ground rose up to meet him. With a shout of surprise, Kíli ran to his side, catching him before he landed in the mud, Fíli not two steps behind. Placing his hand over his Uncle's which was resting on his stomach, Kíli tried to keep him from closing his eyes, but he was fighting a losing battle.

"Uncle! We won!" he exclaimed again, trying to fight back tears, "You… you can't leave! You can't…" Blinking, he suddenly realised that he could feel something warm under his fingertips. Pulling his hand away from Thorin's, he stared at the fresh blood that was sticking to them. "N-no. No!" He shook his head and looked back down at his uncle's tiered face, unable to keep the tears at bay any longer.

"I have never been… more proud of you," the dying man said, glancing up at them, "You have been… everything I had hoped… and so much more."

Fíli shook his head, his own eyes brimming with tears. "Uncle…"

Thorin smiled and rested his hand on Fíli's arm. "I wish I could have… seen you grow into… adulthood."

"You will Uncle," Kíli insisted, "just you wait and see!"

The King chuckled quietly. "No. I don't think so." Sighing, he closed his eyes for a moment. "Where is the Halfling? Where is Bilbo?"

Fíli shook his head. "I don't know."

"I must see him. Make amends before… I leave to be with my forefathers."

Kíli nodded. "We'll find him. I promise."

"We'll send out search parties," his brother continued, "and then you'll get better! You'll be well again!"

They waited for their Uncle's reply, but none came.

For a few moments, they believed him to have already gone, but the steady rise and fall of his chest showed he was merely sleeping.

Moving Thorin's head into his brother's lap, Kíli rose to his feet, a silent agreement made between them, and he began his long search.


	2. Searching for a Burglar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kili sets off to find a certain hobbit, but will he find him in time, and what and who else will he meet on the way?

Kíli hoped against hope that the Hobbit he was searching for was still alive.

Ever since Bilbo had admitted to giving away the Arkenstone to Bard, he had not seen hide nor hair or the Hobbit, as Thorin had banished him from his sight, angered by the betrayal. It was likely that the Halfling had returned to the Men's camp, but after that, anything could have happened. He could have left for home, or stayed in the camp, but something told him that Bilbo would probably have taken that 'letter opener' of his and charged into the fray.

Wiping his eyes for what felt like the hundredth time, the young dwarf walked towards a group of elves, pride and inherited grudges long forgotten.

"Excuse me," he said, but his voice didn't seem to deter them from their conversation in their own language. Coughing, he cleared his throat of the lump that had lodged itself there and tried again. "Excuse me!"

Turning to face him, the four elves gave him a sour look, one of them actually sneering at him. Undetered by their hatred of him, he took another step forward.

"I'm looking for a friend-"

"We cannot tell one of your kind from another," one of them stated, "how do you expect us to help you? And why would we aid your search in the first place?"

Swallowing, Kíli shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he continued to look up at them. "He's not a dwarf. He's a Hobbit."

One of the speaker's eyebrows rose as the others whispered amongst themselves. "A Hobbit?"

"Yes. He is a little smaller than I, with short, curly brown hair, and has large feet, but wears no boots or shoes."

The elf nodded thoughtfully. "I believe I know of whom you speak. But I ask again, why should we aid you in your search?"

Kíli looked down at his muddied boots, feeling the tears beginning to form again. "My Uncle… He has requested to see him, and if I do not find Bilbo soon, I fear… I fear they will never meet again in this life."

He knew his voice was breaking, but he couldn't bring himself to care at that moment. As much as he tried to deny it, he knew that Thorin wouldn't recover. The wound was deep, and there was no doubt in his mind that it would not take long for the King to leave the world of the living. It was as though his life had been tied to the sun's light, and it was fading quickly.

Looking up through tear filled eyes, he found his audience were giving him curious looks. One of them said something in elvish and the others nodded and hummed in reply. Frowning, he wondered what had been said when the one he had been speaking to stepped forwards.

"I'm sorry, but I have not seen your friend."

Kíli lowered his eyes, disappointment filling his gut.

"But my companions and I will help you in your search."

Blinking, the dwarf stared up at them in surprise. "You will?"

The elf nodded.

Smiling, Kíli bowed his head to them. "I thank you," he said, "If you do find him, tell him his friends are by the Gate."

The elves nodded in reply, and he left, continuing along the road.

Each time he passed a living soul, Dwarf, Man and Elf alike, he asked them the same question; have you seen a Hobbit? And each time he was answered, his heart sunk a little more, for the answer was always the same; no.

It had been over an hour since he had left his brother and Uncle, and still his search was as fruitless as it had been when he had first begun, though the number of those searching had grown exponentially. The sun had almost reached the horizon, and the clouds had disappeared from the sky, leaving it as bare and clean as fresh fallen snow, but that did nothing to lighten his spirits.

As he reached the peak of one of the hills which littered the field, he spotted the impressive form of Dwalin as he talked with his brother, Balin, about something. Running down the hill, he shouted their names in greeting, causing them to turn to him, smiles on their faces.

"Kíli!" the warrior cried, pulling him into his arms and squeezing the young dwarf against his chest, "It is good to see you lad!"

Supressing a cry of pain as the bones in his left arm moved again, Kíli smiled. "It's good to see you too!"

"Dwalin! Put the boy down!" Balin exclaimed, "His arm's already been injured enough without you trying to crush it!"

"Ah, he can take it!" Dwalin replied, dropping back onto his feet, "Can't you!"

Rubbing his arm, Kíli's smile disappeared. "Have either of you seen Bilbo?"

The taller dwarf's features darkened. "That traitor? No. But if I had-"

"Thorin wishes to see him."

The two brothers looked at each other in confusion.

"Why?" Balin asked.

Swallowing, he pushed his sorrow back once again. "He… He wants to amend his mistake. He wants to take back what he said… before he leaves."

Dwalin snorted. "I'd be surprised if the ratling was still here!"

"No! I didn't mean…!" Kíli's words caught in his throat, and he took a deep breath. "That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

"It's not… It's not Bilbo who's leaving."

For a moment, they just stared at each other, but then Dwalin began to shake his head.

"No. No, he can't be…"

Kíli bit his lip as he nodded.

Balin stepped closer to him, disbelief written all over his face. "Where is he?"

"He's by the Gate, with Fíli. But I have to find Bilbo. I don't know how long…"

Nodding, the old dwarf gave him a small smile. "I haven't seen him since before the battle."

"Me neither," Dwalin chipped in, "but I suspect he'd be on high ground if he's still here."

Thanking them both, Kíli dashed off to continue his search.

Sticking to the higher ground, as Dwalin had suggested, he began to shout the Hobbit's name, hoping he would hear it. A few others would stop and stare at him every so often, but with the sun's rays quickly disappearing they didn't spend long looking, too concerned with finding a warm bed for the night as the heat of battle faded from their muscles.

"Bilbo!" he cried as he crested yet another hill, turning to look back the way he came, "Bilbo!"

Suddenly, he heard a moan coming from behind him, and he quickly drew his sword, not knowing the source of the noise. He looked all around, but there was no one in sight who could have made the sound.

"Who's there?" he asked, swinging his weapon in the direction he was looking, but still he could see nothing, "Show yourself!"

"Kíli!" came a familiar voice, though it seemed to appear from the air itself.

"Bilbo? Is that you?"

"Yes, it's me! I'm stood right in front of you!" came the reply.

He frowned. "If you are right in front of me, why is it that I cannot see you?"

"You can't… Oh!"

Kíli heard some of the stones move and then the familiar sight of a Hobbit popped out from behind one of the larger rocks, a helm fitting snugly over his head. "Bilbo! I've been looking for you for some time now!"

"You have?"

He nodded. "Are you alright?"

Pulling the helmet off, the Halfling winced. "A nasty knock on the head, and my legs feel like straw, but that's all I think. Yourself?"

"I think my arm is broken, so I won't be able to carry you," he replied as he sheathed his sword, "but I must take you back to the Gate. I've been asked to fetch you."

Bilbo frowned. "You have? By whom?"

Kíli paused before answering. "My Uncle, he… I don't think he will last the night."

The Hobbit's eyes widened. "Thorin's dying?"

The dwarf winced at the word, but nodded the affirmative. "He wants to see you before-"

"I understand."

Kíli smiled, glad he did not have to repeat it again.

"I suppose we'd better get going then."

It took a while to get down the hill without falling, but after a man had offered to help, it only took about ten minutes to get back to the Gate, now that they didn't have to search the entirety of the field to find someone, plus the road had been cleared, creating an easy route through the carnage.

During the time that Kíli had been searching, someone had erected a tent around his Uncle, keeping the cold winds from pulling faster into the halls of the dead than the fingers of death were already doing. Most of the dwarves from their original company were waiting outside; Dori and Nori fussing over their younger brother as they put his right hand in a splint and a bandage wrapped around his head, Óin was using a cloth to clean up a cut in Glóin's side while Bofur tried to keep them all cheerful with his jests and stories, though it did nothing more than make them smile every so often.

When they caught sight of him, they nodded their head towards him in greeting before returning to their tasks, otherwise continuing to give him sympathetic looks. Stepping into the temporary shelter, Kíli found Thorin had been placed on a sleeping mat with a folded coat placed under his head. His chest had been uncovered to reveal many fresh wounds, but the one in that Kíli had found was still weeping, be it only a little.

Fíli was sat next to him, hands clutched together under his nose as he leant on his knees, a fresh bandage wrapped around his right leg and stitches running up his cheek. Balin and Dwalin were talking quietly amongst themselves at the other end of the tent and Gandalf was kneeling by the King's side. When the man put Bilbo down on the ground from where he'd been carrying him on his back, he bowed politely and left.

Looking over his shoulder, the wizard smiled. "Ah, Bilbo! I was wondering when you'd arrive."

The Hobbit approached the make-shift bed slowly as Kíli came to sit by his brother.

"I'm not too late am I?" Bilbo asked, his eyes not moving from Thorin's face.

Gandalf shook his head. "No. I do believe you're on time."

Suddenly, Thorin began to cough, each one causing his body to shake. When it had passed, he opened his eyes a slither and looked around. When his gaze fell upon the hHalfling, he smiled.

"I see the burglar has returned," he said, his voice gritty and hoarse, "It would seem that this will be the last time we will see one another, for I shall be seated with my forefathers in the hall of waiting soon. I don't think the gold and silver will be of much use to me there, but I think the knowledge that we were friends before we parted will calm my guilty heart. Will you take back your words as I take back mine from our last meeting?"

Bilbo's eyes were fill with sorrow as he knelt beside Kíli's Uncle. "Of course I will! Oh why does this retched adventure have to end so? Not even all the gold in the world can change it now. Yet I am glad to have shared it with you." He looked up and into Kíli's eyes. "All of you. And I would not have missed it for the world, though it was far more than any Baggins deserves."

"No!" Thorin replied loudly, causing everyone to face him again, "You deserved that and so much more. You are kindly, courageous and wise, and you do not boast or brag. You love food more than you do gold or any treasure held within the depths of the mountain, and because of that your judgements have not become clouded by greed. Were there more souls like yours, it would be a happier world." He coughed again, moving onto his side for a moment before rolling tiredly onto his back again. "I would have loved to have seen a world such as that."

Silence fell as the King's words faded into the cold air and he shrunk back into unconsciousness. One by one, the members of the company said their farewells, and Dáin had paid his respects until at last Fíli and Kíli were left alone with their Uncle.

Unable to keep his eyes open any longer, Kíli rested his head on his brother's shoulder and closed his eyes.

The next time he was to open them, Thorin Oakensheild, King under the Mountain and the man whom had been his idol and father figure for most of his life, would be cold and rigid, his heart having fallen silent in the night.


	3. In the depths of the Mountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the death of their Uncle, Fili and Kili are joined by their people to mourn his loss, but who else will make an appearance?

The halls of the dead was a vast hall, the walls covered in the carved tales of those who slept their eternal sleep within its walls, though there were several places where they had been disturbed by great rock falls created by the fire drake which had lived in the rooms above. Thankfully though, the entrance to the halls had been too narrow for it to enter, and so the graves had lain undisturbed for over half a century.

However, once through the tunnels that led into this place, the ceiling became lost in the shadows above, no fire's light able to reach such a height, held aloft by great beams of solid rock, their great, smooth surfaces reaching up like the trunks of trees in a forest.

Along the walls stood great statues of past Kings and their kin, but they were not the focus of today's venture into the halls. Today it was for a final farewell.

The ceremony was simple, as few remained from before the battle. After a few days of preparation and a long and silent procession, Thorin's body was placed deep beneath the mountain, laying alongside his great-grandfather, Dáin the first, in a great stone sarcophagus, hewn out of the bedrock. Every dwarf able to stand on his own two feet, along with a few who couldn't, was present as his body was lowered into his tomb.

There were a few oddities that stood out from the rest though, and had it not been such a solemn occasion, Kíli would probably have laughed. Due to their travels, none of the original company of fifteen had any change of clothes at hand, and so, ten stinky, mucky dwarves and a small Hobbit were stood at the front of the gathering, looking forlorn and very tiered. There was also a group of taller figures at the front, though towards the side so as not to disturb others' sight.

Gandalf, of course, was stood in his usual garb, though his hat had been doffed and tucked away in a sign of respect and his hair slightly less tangled than it had been before. The other figures stood next to him were being constantly watched with suspicious eyes.

Bard of Laketown, the man who slew the great dragon that had resided in the very mountain they were beneath, Smaug the Terrible, was stood to Gandalf's left, slightly closer to the wall than the wizard. He had left all but a few daggers behind when he had ventured into Erebor, and the dwarves had a small amount of respect for him. However, it was the elf beside him which drew most of the glares.

Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm, stood proud and tall, still garbed, just as all others were, in what he had worn to battle, blood staining the once fine fabric of his tunic. He bore no weapon, though this did not make the dwarves any less weary of him, and he had brought something long and curved wrapped in a fabric of the Royal blue of the line of Durin, hiding its contents from view, though Kíli had a sneaking suspicion about what it was.

Being the closest of kin to the departed, both Fíli and Kíli had to stand at the front with their distant cousin Dáin, the leader of many of the soldiers present, and the third in line for the throne.

The throne.

That was a topic which had yet to be breached by any of them, but it had been whispering in everyone's minds; now that Thorin was gone, who was to be the King under the Mountain?

Kíli couldn't help but hope that it wouldn't be him. He knew he wasn't nearly as determined or mature enough to take on such a responsibility. He would much rather be off on adventures, with as little responsibility as possible, exploring the world. And Fíli wasn't much better than himself. They were both trouble makers, not even a hundred years old and, most important of all, they were a team.

Ever since he could remember, the two of them had been inseparable. Whether it came to their lessons, training, or general mischief making, if you found one, the other was sure to be close by. They were like two halves of the same coin. Take away one half and it was like taking away their soul.

Suddenly, the sound of a great horn reverberated through the halls, pulling Kíli from his thoughts, and they all bowed to the still open tomb. As was tradition, it would remain so until midnight, at which point the tomb would be sealed forever. During the time between, all known relatives would stand watch, though it was not unheard of that friends would also remain.

Slowly but surely the numbers began to dwindle, the wounded being first to leave and the fit and able following shortly after in a respectful silence, and it soon fell to being less than twenty left.

Not a single member of the Company had gone. Each and every one of them had been ready to lay down their lives for their home, and now they were paying their respects to the one who had led them to it. However, neither Bard nor Thranduil had moved since the great horn, which was not entirely unexpected considering their presence there was no doubt due to more than just respect.

Once the last of Dáin's warriors had left, both Bard and, to everyone's surprise, Thranduil stepped forward, the man pulling a small leather pouch from his hip as the elf King carried the fabric covered item. Stopping before the three heirs, they bowed.

"I wish to pay my respects to your kin," Bard said, Thranduil remaining silent, "and to right the wrongs between us."

Glancing over at his cousin, Kíli watched as Dáin inclined his head, though his jaw was clenched as he glanced at the traitorous being beside the spokesman. Being the eldest, until it was agreed upon who was to be the head of the family, the duty fell upon him to make decisions regarding family matters.

Nodding his thanks, the longbow-man continued towards the tomb, untying the chord which was wrapped around the pouch. When he reached his destination, the leather bag fell to the floor and everyone in the room gasped.

The Heart of the Mountain sat in the palm of the man's hand, its inner light making it look like the stone had captured a rainbow within its walls, the sight wondrous to behold as it seemed to reflect the flames that lit the room.

Taking a deep breath, Bard lowered the Arkenstone onto Thorin's chest. "May it lie here until the mountain falls, and bring good fortune to those who dwell here in years to come."

With that, he bowed to dead King and heirs and retreated out of the room, everyone's eyes following him until he was lost from view.

Once the human had vanished, Thranduil, who had been standing a short distance away, approached the grave, his face expressionless as it had been the first time Kíli had set eyes upon him in the elf's home realm.

Tilting his head to the side, Thranduil seemed to examine the body below him, but his sharp eyes were focused on one thing; the sword Thorin had used during his final battle.

"This weapon is not worthy to lay with such a man," the elf said quietly before pulling the sword out and tossing it to the side.

As it clunked across the stone floor, all anyone could do was stare after it.

Never in the entire history of Middle Earth, from the very beginning of the existence of the dwarves, had the tomb of a great King been so defiled, so publicly humiliated and destroyed. To remove the weapon of those long dead from their grave not only showed the highest of disrespects, but it removed any form of protection the dead would have to reach Aulë's mansion in the next life, as the road there was fraught with danger.

However, already knowing what was going to happen next, Kíli grabbed hold of his cousin with his one good arm (the other being wrapped in a temporary cast so as not to injure it further before the surgeon could look at it properly) who had begun shouting the most profane and insulting things he knew in Khuzdul and was trying to charge at the offender. Fíli, on the other hand, had frozen to the spot, too shocked at what was happening to react properly.

As for the others who were still stood where they had been during the ceremony, Gandalf used his staff and tall frame to prevent them from getting any closer than they were, some of them falling flat on their faces as the wood caught their feet.

Pulling the fabric away, Thranduil revealed the weapon he had once claimed had no right to reside at a dwarf's belt. The Orcrist, stolen from Thorin when he and his companions had been captured by the Elves of Mirkwood, glimmered in the light of the Arkenstone bellow. As it was lowered onto Thorin's chest, Dáin's struggling ceased, his surprise at such an action making his muscles tense, be it in disgust or happiness, Kíli did not know.

Glancing over towards the furious dwarf, Thranduil's eyes travelled up to Kíli's and nodded thanks for the distraction. Returning the gesture, he watched as the elf retreated, his feet making not a sound as he passed over it.

Realising he still held his cousin in his grasp, he removed his arms from around the older man's chest and stepped back next to his brother, nudging him slightly to wake him from his daze. "Are you alright?"

Blinking, Fíli nodded slowly. "Yeah. I think so."

For a moment, nothing happened, but as the tension slowly began to dissipate from the atmosphere, Fíli began to laugh.

It was infection. It spread from person to person until everyone was gasping for air and wiping tears from their eyes. Everyone, that is, apart from Dáin.

"What in Durin's name just happened?" he asked, frowning at the impossibly cheerful group.

Being the only one to stop, Gandalf smiled at the confused dwarf and motioned towards the tomb with a nod of his head. "Those two items that have been placed with your cousin are probably the greatest gifts any dwarf has ever received from anyone other than their own kin."

Dáin frowned. "An elvish blade? Surely that would be more insult than honour!"

"No indeed!" Balin replied, "Thorin had grown quite fond of his blade, for indeed it was his until the Wood-Elves took it from him, and it saved us many a time on our journey here!"

"Surely not."

Kíli nodded, taking deep breaths to calm himself. "Oh, aye. In fact, he complained about its loss daily after we escaped."

"It became rather tiresome after a while," Fíli continued with a smile.

Several of the others voiced their agreements, though a small number were still trying to supress giggles.

"You see," the wizard continued, "the sword is none other than the Orcrist, or 'Goblin cleaver' in the common tongue. It was forged in the elder days, and it is greatly feared by the dark forces in this world. The fact that it has been gifted to Thorin shows that not only do the elves respect him, but that they trust him. As for the Arkenstone… That speaks for itself, does it not?"

Nodding, Dáin looked over at his cousin again before turning back to the boys. "I will keep first watch. You boys should spend some time with your friends. This night should not be a solemn one, but one of rejoicing."

Thanking their cousin, the pair made their way to sit with their friends and recount their tales, for the night was young and they had many hours yet before the final farewells were to be said. However, with the dawn came the ever anticipated and dreaded decision.

But the present was for cheer and joy as they celebrated the life of a loved one, and a life well lived it was.


	4. A meeting of the Durin's Folk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The King is dead! Long live the King!  
> Unfortunately, the decision has yet to be made on who exactly that will be....

Walking slowly yet purposefully through the halls of Erebor, Kíli stretched his arm as much as he would dare, trying to remove the numbing sensation that was beginning to build in his fingers and the back of his hand, following his brother's limping form as they made their way towards what he was told was the 'meeting room'.

It turned out that the 'break' he had received from the warg attack hadn't really been a break at all. Apparently, due to the fact that he was still so young, the bone in his upper arm had merely bent, as the force of the impact had not been great, therefore meaning it would only take a matter of a few weeks rather than months to heal. However, due to the severe bruising and what he was told was an 'over stretched' muscle, he was force to wear a sling during the entirety of his recovery. This did not stop him from moving it though.

Fíli, on the other hand, had to have some fresh stitches for the gash on his face, and no one doubted that it would leave a scar behind. His leg, on the other hand, would heal without any issue, having barely even scratched the surface, though it had been reopened in order to clean it, which neither he nor the surgeon had been happy about, though most of the healer's discomfort came from the way the blonde dwarf had reacted.

Now that they had both been seen to, they had to respond to the summons they had been sent from Balin. Thorin's tomb had been sealed for over a week now, but still a decision had yet to be made on who was to take up his mantle. It had been delayed every step of the way, but there were no more room for excuses, and nowhere left to hide.

They were stood outside the meeting room's doors sooner than either of them had hoped, and they had hoped that they would be given a moment to prepare themselves, but the door swung open almost as soon as they arrived, revealing the room where their fate was to be decided.

It a much smaller room than Kíli had expected, probably only about fifty feet long and wide and about twenty feet tall. There were only a few columns lining the sides of the room, creating almost corridor like areas along the sides, upon which hung torches. But it was the table at the other end of the room which drew their attention.

Apart from two chairs facing away from the door, every seat was taken around a candle lit stone table. Each member of the line of Durin that was within the reach of the mountain, along with a very familiar looking wizard, was seated there, including Óin with his slightly squashed ear trumpet, all of whom were sat discussing amongst themselves, having missed the opening of the doors.

Using the moment to ready themselves, the two bothers looked at each other and took a deep breath. Steeling themselves, they put their best foot forwards and took their final steps towards their elders.

By the time they reached the ring of candle light, Gandalf had noticed the pair and had raised his pipe towards them in way of a greeting, though remained silent so as not to disturb the conversations around him. However, due to how many there were, it was near impossible to distinguish one from another.

"… not ready for…"

"… accept him though. What…"

"… what Thorin would have…"

"Boys!"

Dwalin's exclamation caused everyone to cease their conversations and turn to face the two of them, their scrutinising gazes making them feel even more uncomfortable than they already were, which had seemed impossible only moments ago.

Glóin stood up and moved behind them, patting them on the back. "Better late than never, eh?" he asked, pushing them towards their seats.

"The surgeons caught us before we could escape," Fíli explained.

"And we don't know these halls like you do," Kíli added as he sat down.

Balin nodded. "Aye. Well at least you're here now."

Once the both of them had pulled their chairs closer, and the doors shut, Gandalf stood and pulled out the key he had given to Thorin many months before, back in the warm and cosy Hobbit hole where their adventure had begun.

"I have been safeguarding this key, as had been Thorin Oakenshield's wish, since his passing," the wizard explained, placing it on the table, "I expect that I will not be leaving here with it." With that, he returned to his seat.

"Thank you Gandalf," Balin said as he moved to stand. Slowly, he looked around the small gathering, his eyes serious and his stance firm. "Now, you all know the reason why we are here; to appoint a new King of Erebor."

Several of them murmured their agreement.

"Now, this would be a simple matter, but I'm afraid we have a problem," he continued, pausing briefly to let them know he was serious, "The heirs Thorin has chosen are too young."

Suddenly, the room became filled with shouts and denials, and the two brothers suddenly felt very small and remained silent.

"What?!"

"Too young?!"

"What of Thráin the Old?"

"Or their great grandfather, Thrór?"

Holding out his hands, Balin tried to calm them down. "Yes, yes, I know both of them ascended the throne before they were the boys' age, but-"

"They were two of the most successful and prosperous Kings in our line!" Óin interrupted, banging his fist on the table.

"But who's to say that Fíli or Kíli will be?" Dáin asked, having remained soundless until this point.

Dwalin looked shocked and started to rise. "Just what are you trying to say?"

Balin held his hands out to his brother. "Dwalin-"

"If you're insinuating that they're unable to rule-!"

"I am not insinuating anything! I am saying that these boys-"

"I suppose you think you'd be a better choice!" Glóin growled.

"Well, I don't think that we should rule it out!"

"Lads, please!" Balin cried, but it was of no use. The four dwarves that surrounded them were practically tearing each other's' throats out, and the volume was only increasing. Shaking his head, the white bearded dwarf sunk back into his seat and looked over at the two boys who were sitting opposite him. Neither Kíli nor Fíli had moved since the 'discussion' had begun, and simply gave him a questioning look.

Glancing over to Gandalf, Balin motioned towards the door with a slight nod of the head, to which the wizard simply smiled and stood.

Confused as to what was going on, Kíli frowned at him, asking him the silent question of 'where are you going?' When he motioned that the two of them should join him, the young dwarf smiled. Nudging his brother with his elbow, he slowly backed his chair away from the table and made to join their friend, Fíli close on his heels.

Once the three of them had reached the other side of the room, they waited for a few moments until Balin joined them, and slipped quietly out the door, leaving the others to continue their arguing in peace.

Once the door had closed behind them, the white haired dwarf sighed and shook his head. "I don't think even a cave troll could stop them now."

Gandalf grunted in agreement.

When a sudden shout arose from behind the closed doors, Kíli couldn't help but laugh. "They kind of sound like one too."

For a moment they all stopped to listen, but then a snarl was heard and they were all sniggering.

"I think we should probably continue this conversation elsewhere," Gandalf said after they had managed to hush themselves, and he began to stride down the halls.

Following as fast as they could, they soon arrived at a balcony of sorts, the platform hanging out over the great chasm that had once been a fully functional gold mine, though the precious metals could barely be seen from the lack of light, though there was a shimmer or two where it reflected the light of the torches that were sat at the end of the dais.

It was strange to think that such a dark and gloomy place had once held so much light and beauty, but Kíli knew that, in less than a year, it would be on its way to becoming the beacon of hope and prosperity it had once been.

"So!" Balin suddenly said, pulling the young dwarf from his thoughts, "I suppose I should continue from before."

Gandalf waved him on as he sat down on one of the broken pillars next to the archway, relighting his pipe.

"As I was saying, neither of you are old enough to become King."

Fíli frowned. "Why not? As you've said our great grandfather and Thráin the Old were both younger than us when they ascended the throne-"

"Yes, but those were different times."

"What do you mean?" Kíli asked as he tried to relieve the numbing feeling that was beginning to build in his hand again.

"Thráin the Old was, as you well know, the first King under the Mountain," Balin explained, "he was forced to leave his home land and bring his people here to keep them safe from the Balrog that had invaded his home; Khazad-dûm. It was a desperate time, and the people were forced to trust him as he led them across Middle-Earth, much as your Uncle had.

"Your great grandfather, Thrór, on the other hand, was one of the two remaining heirs after both his father and younger brother, Frór, were killed by a cold-drake at the Gate. However, his people had split, some following his youngest brother, Grór, South to the Iron Hills, his own kingdom. When the great dragon Smaug came, our forces had been weakened by this, and so we were not as well defended as we could have been."

Pausing a moment to gather his thoughts, the older dwarf turned to look out over the mine and sighed. "Had it not been for extraordinary situations and circumstances, I very much doubt that they would have been accepted as King at. In fact, your Grandfather had not been by some, which is why our people went separate ways all those years ago. Apart from Thrór and Thráin the Old, all other Kings rose to their crowns around the age of one hundred and fifty, when they had reached a good middle age."

"So..." Fíli said, taking a step forwards, "what you're saying is that Kíli and I… we shouldn't become King?"

"What?" Balin said, turning back to face them, "No! I'm not saying that! I'm just saying that it would likely be better for the people if they had a… more mature leader. It is completely within your rights to claim the crown for yourselves, but I find that we are in an unusual situation where you are able to refuse it."

Kíli didn't know what to say, and from the looks of things, neither did his brother.

He had always known, with an absolute certainty, that once his Uncle had died, Fíli would become King, and he would become heir until his brother or himself managed to marry and produce children. Having Balin tell him this now had turned his world upside-down.

They had an option to refuse? They could do that? He couldn't tell whether was good or bad news and his thoughts seemed to have frozen from the inability to process the information.

Suddenly, he felt a weight on his shoulder and he found that Fíli was using it as support. It wasn't surprising that the blonde haired dwarf was finding this difficult to take in, even more so than himself, his face in a state of shock.

Coughing to draw attention to himself, Gandalf puffed another cloud of smoke into existence. "Balin, why don't we leave our young friends to their thoughts. You have given them quite a bit to think about."

Glancing briefly at the pair, he nodded and stepped past them. "I'll uh… check on how the others are doing, shall I?"

Once he had disappeared from view, Gandalf came and crouched down next to the two young dwarves. "If you would like my advice, if I were in your position, I would not do what was expected, but what I believed to be right."

With that, he gave them a smile and wandered after Balin, leaving the two to their thoughts.

Turning to face each other, the brothers sighed.

Why did everything have to be so complicated?


	5. Coronation of the King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The heirs of Durin have chosen their next King, but will the people approve?

It was the day of the coronation. The great fires had been lit anew and a feast was being prepared in the kitchens that had been unused for decades. The preparations were almost complete and the sun was almost at its peak in the sky. The time was upon them. Erebor would have a King once more.

The main throne room was so badly damaged by the dragon that the floor in several places has crumbled away, leaving nothing but a hole leading into the golden light of the now reopened mines far below, lines of walkways ant pathways criss-crossing their ways into workrooms and forges and the like. However, there was another room of adequate size that had been used for more private viewings with the King which was relatively undamaged.

As the sun shone through a single gap in the wall upon the new throne and the fires burned in their cages, the crowds steadily seeped into the room. Old or young, healthy or ill, everyone wanted to know who the new King under the Mountain was, and to see him with their own two eyes.

Dwarves, Men and Elves, in that order, were stood on either side of the long path that had been made from the entrance to the room to the raised dais upon which the throne sat, the back engraved with gold and jewels, a spectacle in itself for many of those attending.

Somehow, Bilbo had been convinced to stay a little while longer, and so he was stood, once again, with the other dwarves at the front, though they were considerably less dirty and tiered than the last time they had stood together in such a manor. Also, a very welcomed change of clothes had been given to each of them, though it was particularly difficult to dress Bombur, being several sizes larger than any of the clothes given them, and it was impossible to part Bofur from his hat, which had eventually been found a few days before.

The room was bustling and it was full of life. However, it was devoid of the Durin's Folk.

About two hundred yards along the hall from the temporary throne room, just out of sight of inquiring eyes, were the descendants of Durin, all dressed in the finest and most royal or blues, some with furs about their shoulders, others with chain mail, some even with both, all ready to make their grand entrance, though not all were comfortable with it.

Stood with her sons, Dís, the sister of Thorin and daughter to Thráin the second, sighed, shaking her head at the sight of her two brave and courageous boys fretting over what she believed to be the most mature and selfless decision they had ever made.

Kíli, on the other hand, was wondering if he'd just helped make the biggest mistake in dwarven history.

Since the decision was made, many the dwarves of Iron Hills and some of the Blue Mountains had arrived, and the city had begun to be repopulated in the span of a few days. The miners and the craftsmen had automatically taken up their rolls, some even returning to where they had once worked before they had been forced to leave, and the cooks had immediately gone to work repairing the kitchens until they were in working order.

When their mother had arrived, having travelled with the first group of dwarves from the Blue Mountains, Fíli and Kíli had taken her down to see her brother's tomb, where many other refugees from the plight of Smaug had followed, all wishing to pay their respects to their King. She had wept for the whole night, her tears falling into her silky ebony beard. But there was no more time for tears. Now it was time for the new King to arise. The only thing was; was it the right King?

"Do you think it's too late to change our minds?" Fíli asked, his shaking fingers fidgeting with his freshly braided hair as he tried to calm himself down.

"Or maybe we could postpone it for a while," Kíli continued, giving their mother a desperate look, "You know, until we're ready."

"Or we could leave."

"Or we could… die."

"Yeah, that could work."

Dís chuckled. "Boys! Calm down!"

Fíli took a deep breath. "I feel like I'm going to die…"

"Look," their mother said, putting her hands on their shoulders, "there is nothing you should be worried about. You have made me so proud by making this choice, and there is no doubt in my mind that your Father and Uncle, may Aulë guide them home, would have believed in your actions."

Giving them both a smile, she pulled them close and embraced them. "No matter what you do, I will always be proud of you."

Kíli gave a great sigh, his body shivering as he let the warmth of his mother's body heat envelope him. Unfortunately though, the moment was cut short by a loud cough coming from the doorway.

Gandalf stood with his staff in hand, awaiting their attention. When he received it, he bowed slightly. "The hour is upon us. It is time." And with that, he left, not to be seen again by most of them until the feast afterwards.

Shuffling into the positions they had already agreed upon, they made ready to process into the throne room.

Walking down the hallway, Fíli felt as though he was going to throw up, and it took several deep breaths to get the rolling waves to settle in his stomach. Walking behind their mother, who held the crown on a blue silk pillow, and Balin, both he and Kíli were joined second to enter the now silent room, the throne looming over them as the light that reflected from the gold seemed to pierce their very souls.

Trying to ignore the eyes that were staring at them, the eight dwarves soon made their way down the walkway that had been left open to them. When they reached the steps, only Balin and Dís continued onwards, taking their places on either side of the throne as the others lined up below.

As they stopped almost right in front of the royal seat, Óin and Glóin moved to their left as Dáin and Dwalin moved to their right.

And so, as Balin stepped forwards, the ceremony began.

"Today, in the 2942st year of the third age, we are here to celebrate the crowning of the new Lord of Erebor and King of Durin's Folk. We, who stand before you, are the descendants of Durin the Deathless, and are the heirs to his throne. Do you accept this is so?"

The crowd responded in a unanimous 'aye'

"Will the chosen heirs of Thorin Oakensheild please step forward."

Trying to stop the shaking in his hands, Kíli was glad he was no longer wearing a sling, as it would have drawn even more attention to him than there no doubt already was, and he took the first step up the stairs, acutely aware that he was being flanked by both his brother and the Lord of the Iron Hills. Once they'd reached half way, they stopped.

Looking over each of them, Balin smiled slightly. "Chosen heirs of Thorin Oakensheild, have you decided who it is that will be worthy to hold the title of King under the Mountain, and bear the responsibility of its peoples?"

"We have," the three of them replied, thankfully none of their voices straining under the scrutinising eyes of their audience.

"And have you of the Durin line consented?" Balin asked, turning to the other three.

"We have," they replied.

"Then, will the chosen come and stand before his peers, to be judged of his worth."

For a moment no one moved, and the silence seemed to devour the world… Until he heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps ascending the stairs, the scuff of leather boots passing him as they made their way up the stone steps.

Turning to face the crowds, the heir held his head high, ready to face his fate.

Continuing on, Balin turned to face the crowds once more. "Do you, the people to Erebor, accept this dwarf to be your Lord and King?"

"We do," they cried.

"And do you, Men and Elves of Middle Earth, accept that he will be the ruler of this Mountain and all its inhabitants?"

"We do."

The white haired dwarf turned back to the heir. "Do you swear, in the name of our creator Aulë, and in the names of your forefathers, to protect and defend this land and its peoples? To remain loyal to them and respect them? "

"In the name of Aulë and my forefathers, I do swear."

"And do you swear, in the names of your kin, and in the names of those you hold dear, to uphold the laws of our people and the laws set down by our mighty creator, and to enforce punishment on those who have broken them?"

"In the name of my kin and my loved ones, I do swear."

At that point, Dís stepped forwards, holding the crown out for Balin as she smiled at her boys, her eyes practically glowing with pride.

It was a simple crown, crafted out of iron and moulded into a circlet about an inch tall with seven shield-like faces melded onto in equal spacing around the edge, representing each of the seven Dwarf Lords of old.

Taking the crown into his hands, Balin held it up for all to see.

"Here, in the presence of your peers and your kin, do I crown you, Dáin the second of the line of Durin."

As the crown was placed upon his head, everyone fell to their knee.

"Hail Dáin! Hail the King under the Mountain!" Balin cried.

When the cheers erupted from the crowd, Kíli smiled and met his brother's eyes. Perhaps it wasn't a mistake after all.


	6. Music and Reasons and Bridges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let the celebrations begin!  
> Now that Dain has been named King under the Mountain, there is reason to celebrate, but what lies in store for the two boys?

The great feast was held in the entrance hall, many tables, chairs and stools moved into a semi-circular formation around an area where dwarf and man mingled as they danced to the merry tunes created by various groups of the dwarves, as it seemed that none had forgotten their instruments. The elves did not seem to think this sort of dance to be befitting of their kind, and so they stood apart from the rest, talking amongst themselves.

Of course, just like in any gathering of dwarves… well, let's just say that Bilbo's little hole in the ground looked spotless compared to what the hall did. Not that anyone seemed to care, of course, with all the merry making and music.

What some people failed to realise was that dwarves believed their music to be almost as important as the gold and jewels they were famed to covet, which meant every one of them could play. From a very young age, a dwarf boy would be taught by their fathers the instrument of their lineage, and a dwarf girl by their mother, which is how most families ended up playing the same thing, though there were some cases where the father was killed before the child had reached the right age to begin.

One of these cases was the two nephews of Thorin Oakensheild.

When Fíli was seven and Kíli two, their father had died in an unsuccessful attempt to reach the Iron Hills, having been set upon by a warg pack in the Brown Lands, just North of Rohan, their group leader not wanting to chance the passage through the Mirkwood forest. Both children still having been too young to be taught, Dís had taken it upon herself to teach them her instrument instead.

And this was the reason why Fíli and Kíli played the fiddle instead of the lute.

At that moment in time though, neither of them were playing. Instead, they were sitting with Bilbo, Bofur and Ori as they told an eager crowd of their adventure across Middle Earth; with a few embellishments of course.

When they told everyone about the barrels, it was as if the world had exploded into laughter. There were a few who didn't believe them, but when Balin was called for and confirmed it, it became impossible to finish the tale.

At that moment, the music stopped, and the dancers cheered and applauded them as they retired into the crowds, tucking their instruments away, even as the crowds asked for more.

Felling someone tap his shoulder, Kíli turned to find his mother stood behind him, fiddle in hand.

Grinning and pulling Fíli to his feet, the two of them rushed out of the room, returning a few minutes later with their own and separating to different corners of the room.

When Dís began to play, silence fell.

Standing atop one of the tables, the widow's bow slid across the strings, a tale of woe drifting through the air and filling everyone's eyes with tears. She played the deep and sorrowful tune of the loss of home and husband, and now the loss of her kin, the strong, slow melody reverberating through the halls and into the hearts of all who heard.

It appeared to be coming to a climax, her strokes slowing as the notes were being held longer, but then there were little twitches, almost inaudible extra notes that were beginning to sneak their way into the music. They were more joyful, almost playful little bits that were steadily growing stronger and stronger, until at last they took on their own form, overwhelming the sorrow of the mournful widow.

The crowd turned in surprise as Fíli stepped forwards, his fingers almost stumbling across the strings, but then becoming more firm and certain, picking up the tempo and joining his mother in a playful harmony.

Several of their audience cheered and whistled, especially when he jumped up onto the table, and a fair few began to clap in time to the beat.

Suddenly, Dís ceased her playing and Fíli's fiddle remained alone, his music's voice slowing slightly as it rang out, every so often pausing, leaving short periods of silence, until…

Turning once again, the crowd watched as Kíli approached, answering the calls of his brother on his own fiddle, their music soon becoming as one, so in sync that it became impossible to tell the difference between their 'voices'. When their mother joined with her harmony, the beat began to pick up again.

Jumping up onto the table with his kin, Kíli dropped the fiddle from under his chin and held it much like a lute and began to strum, creating a new beat and stamping his foot on the hard wood, to which everyone began to clap as Fíli and Dís created a whirlwind of notes, turning their tune into a very familiar dwarven jig.

Soon, many of the folks who were still standing were dancing along to their music, spinning and laughing as they turned about the room. Children screamed with joy and the old men smiled at such merry making as they continued to smoke their pipes.

Pulling his fiddle back under his chin again, Kíli supported Fíli's melody as Dís did the same, and they slowed down, playing their last note.

As the crowd cheered, they took their bows, faces bearing wide smiles.

Jumping off of the table, the two boys helped their mother down as a few others continued the music in another part of the room.

Shaking her head, the woman eyed her boys. "So you can play in front of them, but you can't talk?"

"Music's different," Fíli explained.

"Of course it is," she replied, "Oh, and the King wanted to see you."

Kíli frowned. "What does he was to see us for?"

Dís shrugged.

Sharing a confused look, the pair made their way over to the 'royal table', as it had been named, since all of the Durin's Folk had been seated around it.

When they reached it, they found that the seats where Dwalin, Gimli, Glóin's son, and Thorin, their Uncle's namesake and the King's own son, were empty, though this hadn't really surprised them. Dáin Ironfoot, on the other hand, had remained in his seat, the crown still resting on his brow as he conversed with Balin.

The King had become rather fond of his new name, it having appeared shortly after the Battle of the Five Armies due to the iron boots he and his men had worn. It was more of a title than anything else, and he wore it with pride.

Dropping their instruments next to their places, the pair made their way to stand in front of their new King. When he noticed them he nodded his head at them. "Fíli. Kíli."

"Your Majesty," they both said, bowing at the waist.

"Our mother told us you wanted to see us," Fíli explained.

"Indeed I do. Would you like to pull up a chair?"

Finding a few unoccupied seats, the brothers set them down opposite the Lord of Erebor and waited patiently. After all, it is the King who is supposed to speak first after all.

Taking a quick mouthful of mead, Dáin clasped his hands in front of him. "There has been one question that's been biting away at my thoughts for some time now; why?"

Kíli frowned. "Why what?"

Dáin rolled his eyes. "Why didn't you take the crown? Either of you? Why aren't you the one sat here? You had every right to the throne. You were Thorin's heirs! What made you turn it down?"

Glancing at his brother, Fíli tilted his head slightly to the side. "Well, the short answer would be 'Balin'."

"What?" the dwarf in question asked, sitting up a little more.

"The long answer," Kíli continued, "is that Balin explained a few things that helped us make our choice."

"I did?"

The boys nodded.

"You see," Fíli explained, "Balin told us that, although Thráin the Old and our Great Grandfather were great rulers…"

"… and they were greatly accepted by their people…" Kíli chipped in.

"… we found that one of the reasons that they were so successful was because the people were forced to trust them."

"Thráin had to lead everyone across half of the map to keep them safe from the Balrog after all…"

"… and Thrór had to defend them from that cold drake."

They paused for a moment, Kíli glancing behind him. "Does this look like the kind of situation where they would accept a dwarf as their King who hasn't even fully grown their beard yet when they could have an older, more experienced one on the throne?"

King Dáin smiled. "I see your point."

Balin, however, frowned, squinting his eyes at them. "I sense there's more."

Fíli nodded. "Remember when you said that the dwarves had been split apart when Grór moved to the Iron Hills?"

The older dwarf nodded.

"Well," Kíli said, "what better way to unite our peoples again than by having the Lord of the Iron Hills and the Lord of Erebor be one and the same?"

"Plus we're not exactly what you would call 'ready' for that much responsibility."

The two boys look very happy with themselves and their explanation, and the two older dwarves couldn't help but be impressed. Their logic was sound, which spoke much towards how well they could have ruled had they accepted the crown, but the decision had been made, and there was no going back now.

Dáin nodded. "I would say that my curiosity has been sated. But that was not the only reason I have asked you here."

They had thought as much, though were puzzled by what it could have been, and so they Leaned in closer so that they could hear them over the increasing volume of the dancers and music.

"You have been highly spoken of, the both of you," Balin said, "especially since the Battle, and especially Kíli."

The beardless dwarf blinked. "Me?"

"Aye. And not just by the Naugrim either."

"It seems," the King explained, "that your exploits directly after the battle have made you a rather interesting subject for Men and… Elves." He almost spat the last word out, his distaste for their kind showing quite clearly in the way he spoke their name.

Kíli couldn't believe it. Why would they be talking about him? "All I did was look for a friend."

"You also ended up inexplicitly getting about a third of the remaining population within ten leagues to look for him as well."

He felt his eyes widen. "I did what?"

Balin smiled. "Kíli, you have an amazing gift. You are able to make others not only listen to what you say, but act on it. And from what we've heard about you Fíli, we know that we can count on you to be responsible and forward thinking."

"I believe, if either of you had been crowned in my stead, and the problem of joining our peoples together had not been present, you would have been as great a King as Durin himself had you worked together," Dáin states, giving them a smile, "As it is, I would like to offer you a job."

Kíli being far too gobsmacked to answer, Fíli did the honours. "A job?"

"More of a position really. As much as it pains me to say it, I'm going to need as many allies as I can get in the coming days. I have noticed that the horizon to the East is beginning to darken, and this does not bode well."

"A great evil is starting to spread across Middle Earth," Balin further explained, "We have already witnessed it through the Warg Riders we encountered before Rivendell, and the spiders in the forest."

They both nodded.

"Dark times are ahead of us," the King continued, "and the good people of Middle Earth will have to be on the same side if we are to defeat it. This is why we need you."

"Need us?" Kíli asked.

"In order to create alliances, we need to first create bridges of trust and… friendship. In order for these bridges to be built we need to learn about one another and agree upon certain things. And for this to happen, we need emissaries."

For a few moments, neither of the brothers could say anything, too surprised at what they had just been told to grasp any coherent thought in their now addled minds. When they did finally speak, it was a rather dumb sounding 'you want us to be emissaries?'

"Do you need time to think it through?"

All it took was a shared look; a single glance into each other's eyes. They had weighed up the pros and cons and the reasons, and they knew.

Smiling, a mischievous look in their eyes, they both turned back and answered; "Where to first?"


	7. Travelling tales and Midnight talks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Off to travel on their first adventure, Kili begins to wonder about what happened back in Thorin's tomb.

Packing had been a lot easier than either of them expected. Their packs had been filled with changes of clothes (though mostly just extra layers), dried meats, fruits, bread, cheeses (the stuff without mould in), biscuits, various cooking utensils, bed rolls, water flasks, extra smoking tobacco, tinderboxes, a little gold, writing implements, and several medicinal herbs, to name a few things, all of which had been firmly attached to the backs of their ponies.

Everything that needed to be close to hand were either in satchels that would hang at their side, or were tucked away at their belts or in various folds of clothing, their weapons even closer, though Fíli's daggers usually ended up in places that no one could see them. There was also a letter with the royal seal written in the common tongue to let others know that they were the Royal Emissaries of King Dáin the second of the Lonely Mountain tucked away where it would not be easily found.

It was getting close to noon a few days after the coronation by the time they had left Erebor's halls, as Bilbo had wanted to make sure that there was absolutely nothing that he had forgotten, his pony laden with what could have been half of the Lonely Mountain's treasures if the boys hadn't known better.

To most people's great surprise, the small Shireling had only accepted two small chests of his share, giving the rest to Bard, one filled with gold and the other with silver, even though King Dáin had offered him the fourteenth share that had been promised him at the start of the journey. Fíli and Kíli had understood him completely though.

As great a sight as the treasure was, all it did was remind them of the loss that they had been forced to bear.

Without Thorin, the vast halls of Erebor were far from welcoming, nor was it the home that the brothers had envisioned. It was almost a blessing that they were being sent out so soon. The coronation and the feast had been able to keep the sadness at bay for a while, and they had tried extra hard to be happy for a time, since there was so little that had been worth celebrating for a long time, but once it was over, all the emotions had come flooding back.

The Lonely Mountain was a shell now, containing nothing but bad memories.

Though most had returned back to their home in the forest already, taking the emeralds of Girion that had been gifted them by Bard, a small number of elves had remained in order to start the negotiations, including the Elvenking Thranduil, and so they had decided it best that they all travel together for the first leg of their journey.

Climbing onto their mounts, the travellers said their farewells to those within the city, though the visits to a certain number of dwarves ended up being a lot longer than anyone had expected, and began their journey West, ignoring the fact that it would probably be the last time Bilbo would ever see them.

The distance across the great plain between Erebor and the trees of Mirkwood was vast, and it took many days to cross, though it passed quickly by the tales that Beorn wove in his songs as he strode beside them. At night, as they sat close to the fire, Fíli, Kíli and Bilbo smoked their pipes and spoke of tales from their past, each story more wild than the last, until their eyes grew too heavy to keep open.

It was the night before they were to reach the border of the forest when Kíli finally noticed him, standing there on his own at the edge of the camp.

Thranduil had mostly kept to himself since they had left the mountain's stronghold, occasionally conversing with his men and Gandalf, but he would usually be found on his own.

It was on this particular night though that the young dwarf decided to talk to him.

Stowing his pipe away after making sure it wasn't too hot, he excused himself from his friends and made his way over to the elf's side, eyes wandering over their surroundings. Knowing the King of the Woodland Realm would not give him any satisfying answers if anyone other than he were to speak first, Kíli remained silent.

As time wore on and the silence remained ever present, he became tempted to break the silence, unused to having the air around him so quiet, but he refused to ruin his chance with the Elf Lord by speaking out of turn.

"You are more patient than I had given you credit for, young dwarf," Thranduil said suddenly, surprising the smaller man beside him.

Biting back on the remark he was tempted to give, Kíli kept his lips sealed. He wasn't finished yet.

"I sense you seek answers."

"But will you give them?" he asked, glancing up at the elf.

Pausing for a moment, Thranduil returned his gaze. "Perhaps."

Not having expected any other reply, Kíli nodded and looked out into the darkness of the night, the sound of the leaves and branches swaying in the light breeze reaching his ears from the forest's reaches. "Why did you return the sword?"

"He deserved a better weapon than the one he bore," came the reply.

"What was wrong with the one he had?"

The side of Thranuil's mouth rose in a half sneer for a brief moment. "It was an offensive piece of scrap metal. More a toy than an actual tool of war."

"Is this why you threw it across the room?"

"Such a thing did not deserve to be in the same room as a man of his majesty."

Kíli's eyebrows rose in surprise, but he did not push the topic. It was likely going to lead to a dead end anyway.

"I hear you have become a Royal Emissary."

He nodded. "Aye. My brother and I, we'll be travelling all across Middle Earth to represent our kin to make sure we don't accidentally start a war with someone we don't know and 'make bridges', or so my cousin says."

"And what do you say?"

He had to think about it for a moment, not really how to put it into words at first. "I say… I say that we've been made glorified messengers."

Thranduil's head tilted to the side. "And yet you still accepted."

Kíli smirked. "Messengers or not, it means we get to travel the world."

"And you'll be spending most of your time away from Erebor. From your home."

The dwarf looked down at his feet. "It doesn't feel like home… Not without…"

The Elvenking nodded. "Though King Thorin's presence graced her halls for but a short time, would it not still hold his memory?"

"That was not my Uncle in that place."

Thranduil blinked. "But surely it was. I saw him just before the battle."

"Aye, that may have looked like him, but he was not the same man as when we started this journey," Kíli explained, saying what every one of the thirteen surviving companions had each admitted to believing, but only in whispers so no one could hear. "He would have given up every single coin of that gold to keep his home safe had greed not corrupted his soul. No… Those halls hold no fond memories for me."

Looking up at the sky, the young dwarf remembered how his Uncle had spoken of his great-grandfather; how the gold seemed to fill his mind, eat away at his sanity, bringing a maddened look to his eyes. They had seen that very same look reflected in Thorin's eyes that day they took back the gold. It was terrifying.

"It's getting late," he said, suddenly feeling weary, "I should probably get some sleep."

Not waiting for a reply, he returned to the fire next to his slumbering brother and pulled his blanket around his shoulders, his eyes sliding shut as he drifted off into a dreamless sleep...

Only to be disturbed by the blinding light of the sun as it crested the horizon.

After a quick breakfast of lembas bread and grapes, with everything got packed away and everyone atop their mounts once more they continued to head towards the forest.

The two dwarf brothers stayed at the back with Bilbo while Gandalf talked with Thranduil. Beorn, being his usual happy self, sang his songs and recited poems of his home land, making the journey seem half as long as it was.

As they reached the edge of the forest, their company split in two, the elves moving into the shadow of the trees while Gandalf, Bilbo, Beorn and the brothers remained in the sunlight, though Thranduil remained for a few moments, talking a while longer with the wizard.

"Farewell, Elvenking," the Istari said, his voice warm and honest, "I wish you well in the coming days, and joy in your halls."

"I hope we will meet again, Mithrandir," Thranduil said, his voice carrying all the way back to the three of them some twenty feet away, "My halls would do well to be honoured by your presence, and I hope more than once."

Nodding, the bearded man was about to turn away when Bilbo suddenly ushered his pony forwards, pulling something out of one of his bags as he did.

"What is this?" the elf asked as the Hobbit held out a necklace of silver pearls; the necklace that King Dáin had gifted him before they had parted, no less.

Bilbo seemed to freeze, suddenly unsure of himself. "Well… You have been more than hospitable… during these last few days… allowing us to share your camp and your food and… I feel I must repay you for your kindness."

For a moment, Thranduil simply stared at the gift, but then he carefully lifted it out of the small man's fingers and smiled. "I will take your gift, Bilbo Elvellon, and bid you all farewell." Nodding to Gandalf, he turned to the two dwarves. "Aa'menle nauva calen ar' ta hwesta e' ale'quenle, spangaerea. Tenna' ento lye omenta."

Not sure what had just been said to them, they simply bowed their heads, their expressions blank. Luckily, this seemed to satisfy the Elvenking, and he disappeared back into the woods.

Bilbo frowned, unsure of what had just happened. "Uh… what did he say?"

"He said; 'I will take your gift, Bilbo Elf-friend,'" Gandalf translated, "'and bid you farewell. May your paths be green and the breeze ever on thy back, bearded ones. Until next we meet.'"

Surprised at how polite and kind Thranduil's words had been, the pair looked at each other.

Perhaps, since they were going to be visiting them so often, it would be a good idea to learn the elven language. Just to be on the safe side.


	8. A Fond Farewell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coming to the end of a journey, the inevitable is just around the corner.

The cold winds of winter had swept in over the next few days, and though there was little to fear with the likes of Beorn and Gandalf, there were more than just orcs and goblins in The Wild. Taking the long route around the forest, the group made it to the doors of the skin-changer's house by mid-winter, the small Hobbit complaining bitterly about catching his death in such temperatures as the snow fell outside the window. However, once a fire had been lit, there was little left for him to whine about.

The rest of the winter was spent in Beorn's grand halls, many men from regions far and wide turning up on the doorstep in answer to his calls, and there was not a day that went by where not told of the disappearance of the goblins.

Ever since the Battle of Five Armies, the fowl creatures had gone into hiding, deep in their caves in the misty mountains, and the Wargs had vanished from the woods. There was no reason for men to fear travelling any more.

As their visitors came and went, it seemed as though they took a little of winter with them, and before long the heat of the sun's rays began to flood Beorn's garden, melting away the last of the snow and the ice and giving way to the spring time flowers. It was time to leave.

Their friend gave them as much food as their ponies could carry, which was far more than any of the four had expected to need, and gave them the fondest of goodbyes, saying that his door would always be open to them if they ever had the chance to come visiting. Taking a mental note of this, both Fíli and Kíli led their ponies down the path, following the Grey wizard.

It was about a fortnight later when they finally saw their destination.

After travelling along the same path in the mountains on which they had been captured by goblins and following the road to the brink of the valley of Rivendell, the way steep and treacherous to venture down on the backs of pack animals, forcing them to walk, they rediscovered the Last (or the First) Homely House.

By the time they had reached the doors to the House of Elrond, the sun was far below the horizon, though the sky was far from dark as a thousand white pin pricks of light dotted across it, and the near full face of the moon shone down on them.

Unlike the first time they had visited though, they were not greeted by an elf, but a man. Or rather, a human, as it was most certainly still just a child, and a very energetic one at that, which was definitely more than they could say for Bilbo, who had fallen asleep in his saddle.

"Good morrow," he greeted, a small smile gracing his features as he spotted the sleeping Hobbit, "what brings you to the House of Elrond?"

"My friend and I," Gandalf said, indicating nodding towards Bilbo, "are but weary travellers seeking shelter for the night."

"And you shall have it, of course," came a voice from behind the child, forcing him to turn.

"Ada!" the child exclaimed, running up to the tall figure they knew to be Elrond and clutched his leg, "Lle sinta sen?"¹

"Uma, Estel," he replied, leaning down and putting a hand on the boy's shoulder, "sii' auta a' rath, ri' n'uma amrun vasa!"²

As quick as a flash, the child dashed off into the halls, disappearing from sight.

"I apologise for my ward," Elrond said after a few moments, looking back over his shoulder to make sure the boy had really gone, "I'm afraid Estel can be quite curious when it comes to visitors."

"Oh that's quite alright," the wizard replied, "I don't think Bilbo and I will be here very long in any case. Fíli and Kíli on the other hand though…"

The Lord of Rivendell bowed his head to them. "I have been told of what happened at Erebor. I am sorry for the loss you carry."

The two dwarves bowed their heads in return.

"We can talk more inside," the elf said, "It is late, and I do not doubt you would wish to be sitting under a roof in more comfortable conditions while you share your tale."

Thanking him, they roused Bilbo so he could be moved to a soft, warm bed with feather pillow, and followed him inside, leaving their ponies to be tended to, save for a few belongings.

Once they had all settled on the seats they had been shown to and removed their weapons from their persons, except maybe a knife or two, Fíli taking a considerably longer time than Kíli to disarm himself, much to his brother's amusement, they recounted their tale of what had come to pass in the past few months.

After they had finished their account, they presented the Lord Elrond with the letter the King under the Lonely Mountain had given them and waited for him to finish reading it.

"So, you have become ambassadors of the Halls of Erebor," the elf said, folding the letter back up and handing it back to them, "and yet you are also princes of your people."

"Yes," they replied, but they refused to answer the question which was evident in their host's voice.

Raising an eyebrow, Elrond sighed. "Very well. We will talk more in the morning. It is too late to talk of politics."

Taking their leave, the two dwarves followed the elf that had been sent to guide them to their room and fell into a blissful slumber the moment their heads touched the heavenly sheets, still fully clothed in their dirty travelling clothes.

Which, of course, ended up leaving a stain on the pristine white cloth the next morning.

Unfortunately for the dwarves, they were caught while they were trying to hide them away in the boxes that sat at the ends of their beds, though all the female elf did was smile and say that their companions were making ready to leave. Looking guiltily at the sheets bulging out from the open lidded boxes, both Fíli and Kíli made their way towards the main courtyard where they had been told Gandalf and Bilbo were waiting.

"It is good of you to grace us with your presence!" Gandalf explained in a playful tone as they descended the stairs towards him, "Did you rest well?"

"Very well, thank you," Fíli replied.

"Though I fear we may have ruined our sheets with our dirty clothes," his brother continued, grimacing slightly at the thought. They had been there a single day and they had probably already overstayed their welcome.

"Well, I don't think that will be too much for the worse for you," the wizard said, bringing him out of his thoughts, "I don't think Elrond will be offended by dirty sheets."

"Indeed not," the elf said, smiling slightly, "I would not hold it against exhausted travellers to neglect to change before sleeping."

Fíli bowed. "You are very kind."

Elrond waved it off and turned back to the wizard and the Halfling. "It is sad to see that you are leaving so soon, though I understand that you are eager to return to your home, Master Baggins."

"Yes indeed!" the Hobbit exclaimed, "As wonderful as this place is, I have missed my Hobbit hole for many months, and I look forward to returning to my arm chair by the fire. You have been so kind to let us stay even the night. I feel as though I should give you something."

"That is not necessary," the elf replied, "Mithrandir's company is more than enough payment, as there has been much wisdom in his words since he has arrived."

Bilbo seemed uncertain about whether this was enough and fidgeted with the buckle on his bag. "Are you sure? I would feel awful if I didn't give you anything."

"If it will worry you so if you do not, then you may, though I will not accept any large token. I did this as an act of friendship, and would wish it to remain thus."

Nodding, Bilbo searched through his pack until he pulled out a long silver chain, its links so small that they almost looked like a thread. "It is the smallest thing I have that I feel would be of any credit."

Holding his hand out, Elrond let the small man drop it into his palm. "Then I shall accept it. Diola lle."³

Smiling, the Hobbit nodded before walking over to the two dwarves, leaving the Lord Elrond to talk with Gandalf. "I will miss the both of you."

"And we will miss you, Master burglar," Fíli replied.

"It's been a real adventure. I shall never forget it."

"Maybe you should write a book about it or something," Kíli suggested with a shrug.

Bilbo laughed. "I don't think I would have the skill to do such a thing. I fear my words would do it no justice."

Patting him on the shoulder, the blonde haired dwarf shook his head. "Don't sell yourself short."

The Hobbit was about to reply when Gandalf called him over, saying that it was time to go.

With a surprised yelp, Bilbo suddenly found himself being enfolded in a pair of arms. It took him a second to realise that Fíli was hugging him, but when he did, he returned it, and a moment later Kíli joined in, his own arms encircling them both. Once they pulled back, he gave them a final nod, not trusting himself with words, and headed to the Grey wizard's side.

Watching as the two figures slowly vanish from sight, Kíli sighed.

"It doesn't feel right," he said, "saying goodbye to friends."

"I know," Fíli replied, draping his arm over his shoulders, "But I'm sure we'll see him again. Probably sooner than you think."

Nodding, the beardless dwarf turned back towards the Homely House. He looked forward to that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although this is goodbye for now, this is but the beginning of their adventures, where they will make many more friends.


End file.
